Chapter Six
By the time we clear the final entry checkpoint, I’ve been touched by no fewer than fourteen people.
Sweat dots my upper lip, my heart beating out a frantic tattoo against my sternum. The boning in the brocade vest I spent months so carefully tailoring now feels like a prison in its intricate corsetry.
Aside from a single encrypted message insisting on our presence—and that our masks tonight be gold—it’s been total radio silence from this supposed benefactor of ours.
Ever since the incident at the Guardhouse check-in.
He did come through with a chartered flight for the four of us, but all this cloak and dagger is doing is only further convincing me that we’re little more than pawns in some tyrant’s endgame.
Tristan, on the other hand, loves extolling the humble pawn. The unrelenting strategist banks on the fact most players continuously underestimate its net worth—forgetting all about the only piece on the board able to be promoted above its original station.
Forgetting that in the right hands, a pawn could easily be the difference between a win and a loss.
Personally, I don’t know if I quite agree with putting that much faith in a lowly foot soldier.What I do know is that it doesn’t make being here tonight any less dangerous. No one can argue that we’re not completely out of our element.
And what’s worse— she’s here.
Somewhere.
I’m not exactly sure if this nauseous grip on my stomach is dread…or anticipation.
Callum’s hand curls protectively over my shoulder, reading me like a book. Normally, that familiar touch of his would come as a welcome one, grounding me before the anxiety takes over and the edges of my vision white out. Right now, however, it’s all I can do not to flinch.
“How many candles you think are in that big ass chandelier right there?” comes his deep baritone from my right. I feel his fingers flex against the fabric of my overcoat. My brow knits, but the question has my focus drifting to the vaulted ceiling against my will.
The massive, empire-style lighting all look to span at least twelve feet each. Each one contains hundreds of crystal bulbs arranged in rising patterns of bronze sconces. I’m about to begin mapping out the bottom tier’s generous circumference when I’m gently tugged away. It’s Callum again. He’s hovering there with a pinched expression as his gaze roams over my face.
“What?” I ask blankly, but he must find whatever it is he’s looking for, because some of the tension around his honey-brown eyes lessens the longer he studies me.
“Good,” he eventually grunts, turning away to scan the room we’ve just entered. I squint at the side of his head, wondering why my skin’s no longer crawling. Finally, it registers I was so distracted by Callum’s challenge that my panic attack never found its foothold.
Ever the caretaker, I already know he’s not expecting a thank you, and without another word, he uses his huge form to begin herding me toward Tristan and Lake instead.
I do my best to ignore the chattering crowd as we weave through the throng, choosing instead to focus on the figures of my brothers. The two of them have claimed a spot in the opposite corner of the atrium, not far from a large obsidian dais that was likely brought in especially for the event.
Tristan’s running his cool gaze over each of the guests nearest them.
Lake, on the other hand, looks ready to bolt, shoulders high and long fingers flicking his Zippo open and close in agitation. After he’d disappeared from the stadium yesterday, he hadn’t resurfaced again until well after midnight. He’d been cagey with the details and has stayed skirting the edge of mania ever since.
It’s honestly a miracle Tristan got him here at all—or in one piece. He’s even managed to smuggle him into a slim-fitted tuxedo jacket despite his vocal protests.
As soon as we reach the two of them, Callum immediately circles in, eyeing Lake like a dogcatcher with a net.
“It’s a masquerade, and we don’t even know what color she’s wearing,” Tristan’s explaining very calmly, like he’s talking down a skittish child. True to form, he seems completely unfazed by the fact he’s currently surrounded by some of the most dangerous people in the country. “I want answers just as badly as you do, but we need to be careful.”
My jaw tightens.
Answers are the only reason I even agreed to come tonight. I’m just afraid we’ll end up leaving empty-handed.
Or worse, walking away with even more questions than we came with.
“You two hold this position, Atlas and I will do a lap.”
Lake’s blond curls bounce dramatically as he pitches forward. “Seriously?” he scowls, face screwing up in annoyance. One of Callum’s massive hands shoots out, gripping him by the nape. The corded muscles along his neck and chest strain as he struggles to contain that crazed energy.
Our brother’s so close to the edge that it’s a wonder we can’t physically see the void rising up, ready to swallow him.
“I’m serious. Don’t. Leave. Cal’s. Side ,” Tristan instructs firmly, authority evident in every clipped word. He tilts his head at me, signaling his intent to leave. He turns before adding a final, “And fuck , just— behave .”
“I just?—”
But Tristan’s already moving off, ignoring his continued protests. I mean, it’s not an unreasonable command. We’re surrounded by pockets of debauchery and there are plenty of lascivious looks being shot in Lake’s direction thanks to the outfit I helped create.
No guess who he’s peacocking for.
Tristan and I don’t speak as we ease our way through the mass of bodies, our path naturally following the edges of the large chamber. I’m always appreciative of the fact that my brothers know me well enough that we don’t really need to. Both hands slip casually into the pockets of my dress pants, my head on a swivel. It’s not long before I’m casually dropping my pace, keeping a step or so between us.
This is me at my most comfortable—slipping through a crowd unseen; the silent observer. Already the press of people is becoming less suffocating.
The guests we pass are a swirling mix of formal and elaborate designs, each group of masks forming a statement for their owners. I’m not so well-versed in the factions to identify them on sight, though I’m positive each of the colors chosen are significant. Unlike our simple gold pieces, it seems to be a sea of feathered and bejeweled Venetian masks—some tasteful in their brocade patterns, others favoring the towering harlequin-style headdresses.
Commedia dell’arte has also been a popular choice I note, passing a huddle of raucous Pantalone wearers, marked by their grotesque cheeks and exaggerated noses. They’re followed by a group of more modest pagliaccio half-masks in silver.
I even spy a group of twisted shikami Noh masks.
Just as we’re moving past a pair of men wearing matching metallic gold Voltos, I catch a snippet of their conversation and my whole body lights up with a renewed shock of adrenaline.
I may have only met the man in person the one time, but I would recognize him by voice alone.
“Not a chance. Her guard dogs are sticking to her like flies on shit,” he grates in that unmistakable, gravelly Italian-American accent.
I’m cautiously angling my head in their direction when I see his companion roll his eyes. It’s the only part of his face that’s still visible behind the full coverage of their masks.But then I clock his companion’s thick, dark, wavy hair with its signature white streak.
Correction —I recognize both of them.
The Donato brothers.
Twin black gazes stay intently focused elsewhere as they speak, and almost involuntarily, I turn to follow their line of sight.
A dire mistake.
It feels like every organ in my body has plummeted south, sending me reeling. I stumble forward, chasing after Tristan and snagging his elbow.
Fuck, keep it together. You knew this was coming.
He turns, eyebrows raised, giving me an expectant look.
I tip my chin, before flicking my eyes back toward the two men. “It’s Raphael and Gabriel,” I hiss. “I think they’re planning something with Sabine.”
But even as the words leave my mouth, they already sound bizarre to my own ears. Why would two Lieutenants of the Alessi crime family be interested in an orphaned high school girl?
Tristan’s nostrils immediately flare when he also sees what has the two men so fixated. My spine and knees feel like Jello, and I’m forced to settle for the armor of a dark scowl as he drags us both into place behind a nearby statue.
I thought this part would eventually get easier, but it’s just as much a punch to the gut seeing her in this unfamiliar place as it is having to see her haunting the halls of the Academy every day.
More so, actually.
I’ve always enjoyed puzzles. By their very nature, I know they’ll have one single, predetermined solution.
Predictable.
Logical.
Safe.
Sabine Winters is not a puzzle.
Sabine Winters is a labyrinth—an endless maze I blindly wandered into at twelve years old, and one I’m yet to escape. How could I, when each of her walls are constantly shifting, and the path never stays the same?
The day she disappeared and all the ones that followed are seared into the very bones of me.
The tart smell of strawberry chapstick.
A woolen-gloved palm, sliding into mine.
Her teasing laughter.
White-blonde hair whipping in the cool December air, as she spins and walks away for the final time.
And then her absence.
I side-eye my brother’s rigid profile, the Donatos temporarily forgotten. I find myself avidly wishing at this moment that I could read his thoughts as he unabashedly drinks her in. Wondering if they’re half as conflicted as mine seem to be growing the longer I trace her figure.
And despite my trepidations, I’m finding myself extremely… jealous that I’m not the one who made this dress for her.
I absolutely should not give a fuck if she was dressed by the finest fashion houses in the country.
I should also not give a fuck that she’s here with someone else.
But for some reason I do.
I really fucking do.
It’s a hideous, constricting thing that slinks around inside my chest, poisoning my resolve until all I can think is but, she’s mine. Planting thoughts that each have my dick stirring, and I loathe that years later she can still make me feel this way.
That she makes me feel anything at all.
The woman in question stands tall and regal, her platinum hair in soft waves and wearing a floor-length ballgown in a blue so deep it looks black beneath the red light of the chandeliers. The dress itself boasts a narrow bodice, a defined, sweetheart neck, and a basque waistline. One shoulder and the upper layers of the skirt are decorated with long plumes that match her mask exactly.
The rest of the dress is shot through with clusters of diamonds, and when they catch the light, they wink like galaxies in deep space.
The effect is otherworldly.
She looks like Nyx.Goddess of the Night.
Sabine certainly looks as if she’s holding court—closely surrounded by three huge men whose combined body language reads like they’re facing down a threat. And from the way they’ve positioned themselves around her, that threat must be the fourth man, whose back is to us. I can’t see any distinguishing features, aside from a mane of golden blond hair that’s just past his collar.
Only the lower half of Sabine’s face is visible to the room, but her mouth is pressed into a hard line. As are her shoulders.
“Who the fuck is that she’s with?” Tristan practically grinds out from where he’s pressed up beside me. His frustration feels hot on my neck.
“Those might be the two men Cal and Lake saw her with at the diner,” I reply, quietly. The descriptions certainly match. A blond and a brunet, both tall, muscled, tattooed.
“What about the third guy? And those masks—are those meant to be ravens?”
I shrug, unsure about both. Sabine and her companions wear matching disguises, each richly decorated with long, black feathers. They do look like they would come from some kind of corvid, but I can’t be entirely sure which.
I also have no idea who the extra man beside her might be. Cal only mentioned seeing her with two heavily inked, Enforcer-looking types. Whoever this other guy is—she must be comfortable with him. He’s practically welded himself to her side, one shoulder angled forward like a shield and the other arm snaked around her waist.
Exactly like a possessive boyfriend might stand.
In fact, all three of them are crowding up in her personal space like they each have a right to.
Is this who she’s made her new life with? Who she left us behind for?
Those thoughts send battery acid eating its way through my lungs.I blink rapidly when there’s a burning sensation at the back of my eyes. I have a job to do and I need to remain impartial.
Otherwise, we’ll never get our answers.
The blond-haired man must’ve greeted her because her crimson-framed mouth parts.
A single word.
Midas.
Midas?
Oh.
Oh fuck.
When she was verbally sparring with Monelli and Reynolds in the alleyway, she’d mentioned both the North and the Arbiter. It was painfully obvious that not only did she already know about this world, she was well acquainted with it.And with that level of confidence, perhaps even more than we were—considering we’d only been initiated a few months before.
But this here? This was more than simply knowing about Hospitium and treaties.
This was something else entirely.
“Did she just call him what I think she did?” Tristan breathes. He’s not as practiced at reading lips as I am, but the way she drew his name out, not even a novice would’ve missed it.
“Midas,” I confirm, my voice sounding oddly thin to my ears. Like some of the oxygen in the room has just been sucked out.
It certainly feels like it.
“How—did she just—a fucking king of the fucking Underworld —?” he manages to sputter out after a few ragged breaths.His chest heaves while my own fingers dig harshly for purchase on the cold stone before me. He never could handle not knowing which of a deck’s cards were already in play. And here she stands before him, holding onto her full hand.
Possibly even with a trick card or two still hidden up her sleeve.
I wait quietly as he struggles through a spectrum of emotions: shock, anger, frustration , before landing on determination and forcibly gathering up the broken shards of his composure.
He turns then, catching my wide gaze, the real unspoken question hanging in the air between us.
The one that’s been dogging us all since her unexpected return to Rox City.
Who the fuck is this Sabine Winters?